The Assigner's form shimmered like a mirage, coalescing from the glinting meteoric dust that swirled in the air of Milennia. He rose, particles clinging to his skin, each one a tiny beacon rekindling the fire within his cells. He could feel the pulse of his immortality beating stronger with every breath he took, the Diamond Storm coursing through him as though he were its very epicenter. An undeniable truth hung over this rebirth—the price of such power was etched into the fabric of Tripolis, the planet's core trembling with each tempest he summoned, its cries silent but clear. A new dominion awaited him, an inescapable destiny among the stars, but for now, he reveled in the resurgence of his strength.
Luminous and ethereal, Vectra lay against him, her form a contrast of soft curves and fluid grace atop the solid expanse of his chest. Her touch was a whisper of silk, her skin reflecting the cosmic shimmer of the pool. "You never told me why you hate them so much," she murmured, her voice laced with a curiosity that had spanned eons.
The Assigner responded not with spoken words but with a susurration of thought, his serpent tongue slipping into her ear, intimate and invasive. It was his unique communion, a pathway to the mind that bypassed the triviality of sound. The sensation for Vectra was both unsettling and familiar, a reminder of the countless years since she'd last heard the timbre of his actual voice. Yet, his psychic embrace enveloped her senses, warm and radiant as sunlight, making her wonder if she ever needed to hear anything else.
***
A shiver traced the length of Vectra's spine as she felt the Assigner's thoughts coalesce into words within her mind, a silent storm echoing his spoken disdain. His fingers paused in their ministrations; the faintest pressure against her skin betrayed a contemplation that transcended the physical realm.
"Maybe I enjoy the act of hate too much to give it up, even if it seems illogical to you," he confessed, an undercurrent of amusement in his psychic tone.
Vectra's laughter was a silvery peal, soft and melodic, contrasting the gravity of his admission. She arched her back slightly, pressing closer to the solidity of his form, finding solace in the paradox of his touch—gentle yet capable of orchestrating destruction on a cataclysmic scale.
"I think hate is rather illogical in itself," she countered, her voice a playful challenge amidst the serenity of their sanctuary.
The White Snake's response was immediate, a vibration of energy that danced upon her consciousness. "On the contrary, Beloved," he intoned, the endearment resonating with a possessiveness that sent ripples across the meteoric pool. "It is the most natural, most rational state of being. Anyone who does not hate does not live."
His philosophy unfolded around her like dark wings, a doctrine that fueled the essence of his immortality. In that moment, Vectra found herself adrift in introspection, pondering the enigmatic nature of their bond. Did the Assigner harbor any sentiment for her beyond necessity, or was she merely a fixture in his eternal existence—a companion to sate the void of solitude?
Doubts crept into the corners of her mind, casting shadows upon the connection they shared. Yet, Vectra knew that whatever the truth may be, her role was unchanging. The thought of Mila's impending return, humbled by the Assigner's might, solidified her purpose. She would once again take up the mantle of guardian to the White Snake's progeny, a sentinel standing vigil over the legacy that intertwined their fates.
With a sigh that melded resignation with a strange contentment, Vectra rested her head upon the Assigner's chest, his heartbeat a steady drumbeat that affirmed the inexorable march of time and power. It mattered little whether love or convenience bound them; they were woven together in the the cosmos—a dance of life and destruction.
***
The throne room of Milennia was a confluence of shadows and light, with iridescent walls casting prismatic patterns over the polished floor. At its heart, upon a dais wrought of bone and silver, the Assigner—coiled majesty in his White Snake form—rested with an air of indifferent sovereignty. Beside him, Vectra stood completely silent.
Into this sanctum of power, Volmira glided with ethereal grace, her silver hair a cascade of moonlight against her slender frame. Her eyes, reflective as mercury, scanned the chamber with an innate tranquility that belied the turmoil within. She moved with purpose, her steps a whisper on the stone.
Beside her, Rosum's massive form lumbered, each footfall resounding like a drumbeat of destiny. His human face, etched with lines of concern, was framed by imposing horns that spiraled toward the vaulted ceiling. The horse tail swished behind him, a metronome to his internal disquiet, while his hoofs clacked with a symphonic, soothing rhythm.
"Father," Rosum's voice boomed, echoing off the chamber walls, "the balance teeters on the brink. Areilycus must be found, or Tripolis will succumb to the fire within its core."
The towering figure shifted, muscles rippling beneath his fur, as he regarded the Assigner.
He continued, his words a weighty plea, "And without the Anchor, the chaos of the humans will surge unchecked, flooding our realms with their suffering."
The White Snake's gaze, though lacking in physical expression, held a depth of calculation, assessing the dire portents.
Vectra remained motionless, yet her alert stance spoke of readiness. She exchanged a glance with Ros, then Volmira before going back to staring at her feet.
Silence pervaded the throne room, a silence so deep it pulsed with the unspoken words of the White Snake. Within their minds, Volmira and Rosum heard his voice, clear as the ring of crystal, resonating with power that defied defiance.
"The Anchor and the Lord of Light have forsaken their duty to me, to us. They are traitors to our rule." His mental presence was cold, a serpent coiling around their hearts, squeezing with each syllable. "Should they seek forgiveness and return in humble repentance, I shall receive them. Yet if they do not, let Tripolis—let all of you—be prepared to embrace doom."
Volmira felt the chill of his resolve, the implacability of the eternal cycle he represented. Her silver eyes dimmed with the weight of the ultimatum, while beside her, Rosum's frame tensed, hoofs scraping the floor as if ready to charge at fate itself.
Later, within the sanctum of their shared quarters, the two stood by the vast window, gazing at the churning maelstrom of diamond dust that swirled across the cosmos, Tripolis being pummeled to death with it.
"We must act," Rosum stated firmly, his voice a deep rumble that contrasted with the serenity of the stars outside. "Mila's sanity must be restored, or the chaos will consume us all."
Volmira nodded, her slender form barely casting a shadow in the cosmic glow. "We need to find her, bring her back before it is too late."
"If only we knew where she went," Rosum murmured, his human face etched with concern, horned ears twitching as if trying to capture whispers of her whereabouts on the winds of space.
"We do not," Volmira replied, a note of frustration weaving through her typically tranquil voice. "But I am certain Father knows."
"Then we have no choice but to ask for his permission to depart." Rosum's statement hung between them like a verdict, for they both understood the gravity of seeking such a concession from the Assigner.
"We will plead our case," Volmira said, determination lending strength to her figure. "For the sake of all, we must succeed."
Together, they turned from the window, the diamond storm reflected in their eyes—a tempest they hoped to quell with their own hands, guided by peace and reason.